


sunday night scully

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fictober, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: this one's his favorite.





	sunday night scully

**Author's Note:**

> day one of fictober!

In seven years, he’s been lucky enough to get to know quite a few Scullys. There’s Special Agent Scully, of course. And Doctor Scully. There’s Sleepy Scully and Cranky Scully (who are, more often than not, the same person). There’s Friday Night Beer Scully and Thursday Morning Bee Pollen Scully and I’m PMSing Don’t You Say A Word Rocky Road Scully.

Lately, he’s been delighted to meet Bubble Bath Scully and Pancake Scully and Oh My God I Never Knew A Woman Could Come Like That Scully.

And he loves them all equally from the bottom of his heart, he really does (although that last one, man, that last one might just eke ahead a little), but there’s one Scully he loves best. One Scully he feels stupidly, deliriously, unbelievably lucky to have met. One Scully he thinks about sometimes on Tuesday mornings, when Doctor Scully is at the lab, when he’s particularly lonely in their little basement office, and it’s this one right here, in front of him right now.

She’s on his couch, and that in itself is enough to earn her a top spot. She’s on his couch, and her hair is still wet from her shower, piled on top of her head and held with a big clip and a cloth headband and smelling like some kind of tropical fruit.

She’s in his t-shirt (which, combined with the couch, is enough to earn her top five, easily) and it’s one of his favorites, old and a little threadbare in places from years of washing. If she stretches just right, he can see the rougey rounds of her nipples (top three), and if she bends her leg up like she’s doing right now, he might catch a flash of her little purple panties (top two—he’s taken that scrap of cotton off with his teeth before).

But what really does it for him, what cements this particular Scully as his numero uno, light of his life, empress of his lonely Tuesday mornings, is this: her face is green and minty. And her little tongue is poking out between her teeth the same way it does when she’s focusing on an autopsy.

Except the only thing she’s focusing on now is her foot, tiny and perfect, propped up on the edge of his coffee table. And the little bottle of petal pink nail polish sitting on a coaster (which was, by the way, a gift from her so many years ago when she realized with horror the sheer number of water rings on his furniture. He realizes now she was grooming him. Domesticating him before he even knew what was happening. And he is totally, completely okay with that).

She paints her toenails the same way she does surgery: cleanly, precisely, never spilling a drop. He knows, because he’s watched her perform a lot of surgeries (if surgeries on dead things count as surgeries). And he knows because he’s watched her do this a lot now, too. He can still barely believe it. Nearly two months of Sunday nights with her, and they’re always like this: shower, mask, big t-shirt, nail polish. He could set his watch by it. Has considered it, just to see. He’s never loved a routine so much.

“You’re staring,” she says, and it’s almost comical, the familiar arch of her eyebrow under so much green goo. Would be comical if he didn’t love it so damn much.

“You're—” Beautiful. Ethereal. Bride of Frankenstein meets Miss America and mine mine mine. “—cute.”

“Cute?” The eyebrow climbs higher, and that’s familiar, that’s in every Scully (even, sometimes, Fuck Me Harder Till The Neighbors Complain Scully, and that in itself is a feat).

“Yeah, you know. All—” Amazing. Unbelievable. Here. With me. Willingly. “—womanly.”

She snorts. “Womanly, Mulder? Really?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Hmm.” She turns her attention back to her foot, gifts her pinky toe with one even stroke.

He abandons his chair—front row seat to the Little Purple Panty Show—and slides onto the couch next to her, kisses her shoulder through the worn fabric of her shirt.

“I like seeing you like this,” he admits, low so she’ll let him get away with it. “With all your lotions and potions and woman things.”

“Woman things,” she mocks, and he even likes Contrary Parrot Scully. He likes her a lot. “Just wait till I send you on a tampon run. See how much you like ‘woman things’ then.”

“Scully.” He nuzzles her neck with his nose and wonders if she’s forgotten so soon, forgotten his hand between her legs in the shower two weeks ago while the water ran pink.

“What?” She caps the nail polish bottle and sets it aside, turns to face him straight on, and she looks so like herself, so  _Scully_ , with the little disbelieving screw of her lips and the shine in her eyes and her little perfect fucking pink toes that he can’t help himself.

He kisses her full on the mouth, sweeps his tongue between her lips until she groans. When he pulls back, she giggles. Half of her face mask, the bottom half, is mostly wiped away.

“Scully,” he says, happier than he’s ever been, with green goo on his face and the woman of his dreams on his couch. “I’ll  _love_  it.”


End file.
